Sherwood
by Llyra Monroe
Summary: A quiet and troubled town holds a quick-draw competition boasting a hefty cash prize for the winner. The contest attracts a fair share of deadly outlaws, lawmen, and sharpshooters...including Rob Hood. Welcome to the wild and lawless American Old West.
1. The Law

_"We are rough men and used to rough ways." – Bob Younger, 1876_

_The American West, California, 1873_

The steam-powered locomotive shuddered and screeched to a halt at the darkened and deserted station on the outskirts of a dusty Californian boomtown. There was a pregnant pause before the train sighed in exhaustion and tick-tocked it's weighty presence on the weathered iron tracks. The lamps at the station swung in the growing wind, casting faint light on a lone man standing in the shadows.

The night was late, and the sky darkened with an oncoming summer storm. The wind howled through the station's busted windows, whistling a forlorn tune of sorrow and neglect. The city glowed faint in the distance, hidden by rolling hills and the rocky Western landscape.

The man shifted his weight in the dimness, letting a growl escape his throat.

The train was an hour late.

Stepping away from his post by the station's abandoned doorway, he calmly began to stroll onto the short walkway, his worn leather boots kicking up dust in his path. His sharp spurs creating a monotonous beat on the wooden planks. He adjusted his hat firmly down on his head as he stepped onto the dirt, tracing a path towards the train's express car.

As he approached, the door to the car slid open with a raucous bang, and a flickering oil lantern emerged from the car, followed by an suit-sleeved arm, followed by a capped figure, squinting at the strange man approaching the train.

"You there!" called the expressman into the faint night, "Are you The Sheriff?"

The stranger continued advancing. The expressman perceived the stranger's silence as threatening, and hurriedly fumbled for his gun, drew it, and pointed it at him.

"I-I-I…w-w-warn you sir," he stuttered, "I am entrusted b-b-by The Law and W-W-Wells Fargo of The S-S-Sierra Nevada Region to protect this h-h-here cargo…"

The stranger had finally reached the car, his hat pulled low, hiding his face from view.

"By The Law," the expressman said firmly now, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, "Step back." As he pulled back the trigger on his pistol with a firm and resonant 'click'.

As quick and as deadly as California desert lightening, the stranger whipped his gun from it's resting place at his holster, and aimed it into the car. With a smooth and measured gesture, he tipped his hat back, casting lamplight onto his face.

"I am the law," The Sheriff growled maliciously, and pulled the trigger.


	2. The Plan

_"Dodge City is a wicked little town. _

_Indeed, its character is so clearly and egregiously bad that one might conclude, were the evidence in these later times positive of its possibility, _

_that it was marked for special Providential punishment." _

_-Washington D.C. Evening Star, January 1, 1878._

"Sheriff! What a pleasant surprise." John Princeton exclaimed, rather half-heartedly as The Sheriff was ushered into his study by one of his footmen. John rose from his desk to shake his hand but was disregarded and met with an acknowledgeable grunt from The Sheriff as he sank into a luxurious dark mahogany chair. John nervously wiped his hand on his pocketed vest, and strode to the bar.

"Care for a drink?"

"Whiskey," came the curt reply.

John handed a drink to his company, and then leaned on his desk, taking in the sight of the lawman. He was a stout, gruff man with a dark complexion and an perpetually unshaved face. His worn, black hat still sat disrespectfully on his head, shielding his dark eyes from view. He took a lengthy sip of his drink before speaking, "You're probably wonderin' why I am here, Mr. Princeton."

"As a matter of fact, I am. What is your business?"

Seemed like anyone who called on John Princeton came to talk business. Of course, his reputation did suggest he was a gentleman of dealings. He _was_ the so-called richest man in the West.

Contrary to others who came out West for gold, he struck it rich in the mining shafts of Northern California. After claiming his riches, he returned to Sherwood and resided in a large manor in the center of town. Shortly after moving, he was elected mayor, due to his large wealth and connections.

Although John Princeton was powerful, he was by no means the law in Sherwood.

That power lay in The Sheriff.

"Have you heard of the outlaw who goes by the name, Rob Hood?" The Sheriff asked, finally removing his hat and setting it on John's desk.

"Vaguely," John replied, "Please refresh my memory, dear Sheriff."

The Sheriff winced slightly at the title before reaching into his coat pocket and revealing a folded piece of yellowed paper, and tossed it wordlessly onto the desk. John shifted his heavy frame and shuffled back behind his desk to settle back into his chair before reaching over and picking up the paper. He opened it and squinted, feeling for his spectacles in his breast pocket.

The Sheriff sighed at the lengthy to-do, and silently watched as John affixed his spectacles on his nose, and cleared his rusty throat before taking in the information on the article.

It was a wanted poster, illustrated with a crudely drawn portrait of a shaggy-haired man with a dark bandanna covering his nose and mouth. It read:

WANTED: ROB HOOD AND MERRY MEN GANG

DEAD OR ALIVE

WANTED FOR ARMED TRAIN ROBBERY, ROBBERY OF WELLS FARGO & CO. STAGECOACH,

ESCAPE FROM DODGE CITY COUNTY JAIL, AND NUMEROUS OTHER CRIMES.

REWARD: 1,000 PER OUTLAW

2,000 FOR ROB HOOD

5,000 FOR GANG

After he finished reading, John peered up at The Sheriff, raising his eyebrow, "What is the significance of all this?"

Before answering, The Sheriff ran his tongue across his teeth, then he growled, "We must capture him."

"Capture him?" John exalted, leaning back in his chair, "These criminals are like petty cash for me. Besides, I'm not a bounty hunter, and neither are you, Sheriff."

"There already is a warrant out for his arrest from the State of California, Mr. Princeton, but story is that Rob Hood killed the messenger and burned the warrant, making him even more of a wanted scoundrel."

"What do you suppose is your plan then?" John asked, opening up a cigar box and retrieving an expensive smelling Cuban. He offered one to The Sheriff, but he refused, and instead, raised a sharp toothpick to his lips and bit down. Hard.

"I propose that the town of Sherwood hold a quick draw contest," he said, turning his head fitfully towards the window, profiling his crooked profile in the late-afternoon light.

"…And I propose you look elsewhere," John said coolly, exhaling his cigar smoke in a long puff, not taking his eyes off of the Sheriff.

"John," The Sheriff sighed, uncrossed his legs and landed them purposefully on the floor, "Do not forget that I have some cards in my hand too."

"And what would that be?" John chuckled, mildly amused.

He then watched as The Sheriff withdrew another folded stack of papers from his coat pocket and threw it onto his desk, this time with more force. He glanced at the stack, briefly noticing the Wells Fargo seal on the first page. John Princeton knew exactly what the papers were.

The Sheriff stood, his frame backlit from the window, casting a shadow onto John Princeton, "I'm sure the United States Government would like to hear about how California's richest man is neck deep in a suitably large embezzlement case. And try to explain the secretive trains arriving in the middle of the night, trafficking thousands of dollars to Sir John Princeton's small-town doorstep."

John's eyes widened, "You! You wouldn't dare! I gave you the upper hand of the law in this town and I only asked for ten percent of the cuts. And now you're threatening blackmail? All over some insignificant outlaw?"

'Click' went the pistol in The Sheriff's hand. It was drawn and at the ready in one quick moment, pointing across the desk and aiming at John's head.

"Provide me a contest with a handsomely enticing cash reward, and I will see to it that the sound of your dirty money does not reach the ears of Washington."

John gulped loudly, weighing the options in his mind, but at this point, there was only one choice.

"Very well," he said, defeated.

Flashing him an austere white grin, The Sheriff tipped his hat and then turned to stride out of the study. Before he exited, John called from his frozen seat at the desk, "Hear me now, Sheriff, after this contest you will never show your face in Sherwood again!"

The Sheriff turned slightly and spoke darkly from underneath his hat, "I don't intend to."

* * *

Sherwood was a town that ate a man for dinner every night, chewed him like a wad of tobacco, and spit him back out in the morning. It was a dusty, whistle-by settlement, located east of the crest The Sierra Nevada mountains, lost to a penniless existence after the end of the Gold Rush. Those who stayed lead lonely, miserable lives under the desert-like sun, thirsting for what they could not have.

The Sheriff toyed with this fact ruefully as he strutted into Sherwood's Inn and Saloon. A slight hush followed his entrance, but it was as per usual. Most of the townsfolk were familiar with his reputation as a rough cold-hearted lawman, and knew to stay out of his way. As soon as the noise and bustle of the bar resumed, he slowly scanned the Saloon with his sharp, dark eyes.

It was packed tonight, full of regulars and harmless cowpoke farmers, a few weary travelers. There was nothing unusual about the rambunctious crowd that frequented Sherwood's nightlife. If there was a stranger in his midst, The Sheriff would be the first one to know.

He stalked to the bar, his silver spurs hitting the wooden floor like slave hammers on railroad tracks, and plopped down in a seat, slamming his palm on the counter.

"Whisky, Tuck." He ordered, and a pudgy mustached bartender rushed from the end of the bar to his service, grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey from under the counter.

"Evenin' Sheriff," Thomas Tuck nodded, adjusting his tiny glasses while pouring him a drink, "Fancy seein' you here on a Tuesday."

"Well, I couldn't damn wait til' Thursday. It's been a rough few days here, Tuck," he said, leaning back in his stool, drink in hand.

"Ya don't say…" Tuck responded absentmindedly, almost forgetting to set a tiny vessel of toothpicks before The Sheriff. As soon as he was seen too, Tuck whipped a towel from it's resting place on his shoulder and preceded wiping down the bar.

"Yesssserrie…quite a few days…" he mumbled, drawing a toothpick out of the vessel and to his teeth. The Sheriff was notably ruthless and fearful, but underneath his rugged exterior, there was a jaw full of perfect, white teeth.

It was no secret that the Sheriff believed in impeccable dental hygiene; he was a weekly regular at the town's dentist and apothecary office. Although it had become an obsessive, consuming habit, it was something he prided himself on.

He swiveled around in his chair, leaning back on the bar, his eyes directed towards the stage. Some poor old washed-up broad was singing off-key to a bouncy piano tune that told a humorous story about a cheating wife. Others were listening, or singing along, and in The Sheriff's opinion, they weren't improving the melody. He noticed several tables playing cards, accompanied by the pre-loved whores that frequented Sherwood.

The prostitutes who were dancing and swaying with their potential customers didn't interest The Sheriff. They were beautiful and buxom, unmistakably peaking his male interest, as any fine tart would tantalize a man. But as much as they were desirable, they seemed used and dirty to him, and not born with enough brains to darn a sock. He'd had his fill of those strumpets in the past.

Suddenly, a female voice awoke him from his reveries. He turned and saw the barmaid standing at the edge of the counter, waiting for her drink orders to be filled by Tuck.

"Marian," The Sheriff said, flashing her a pseudo-charming smile, although it came off more like a grimace, and touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

"Well shoot my boots, it's The Sheriff on a Tuesday," came her unemotional, yet witty remark.

"That's what I said!" Tucked called distantly from the end of the bar.

"It seemed like the kind of night to get a little whiskey in me," the Sheriff said in a quieter tone, eyeing up Marian from under his hat. She was a slender young thing, although her body was shapely with curves like any other woman. Her forehead glistened wth a thin layer of sweat from the heat and the work and her dark brown hair was tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

"Even though you snuck up on Master Whiskey, Sheriff, it still might sneak up on you. Could knock you plain on your ass," she replied, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Shit, Marian," The Sheriff remarked, while taking a sip of his drink, "You got a face that's prettier n' a Texas sunset, and then you go and open your mouth. Got a trap on you that's a sharp as a Montana bobcat."

"Well I got in some practice in my past on many dirty tough guys like you," she answered, leaning closer, narrowing her hazel eyes at his gruff appearance. He could smell the remnants of the sweet soap she used on her skin, a scent amplified by the sweat on her brow. And like a ravenous wolf who smells a tantalizing whiff of its prey, he pounced.

"I say, Marian," he spoke softly, so only she could hear, "You look prettier and prettier everytime I come in here."

"That's what you always say, Sheriff," Marian shook her head, "And it ain't ever true. You've had too much to drink." She made to move away from him, but he caught her elbow, drawing her towards him. She was unable to escape as he had blocked her in with his other arm, which brushed against her back and pulled her closer to his body.

"You're the only woman in these parts who makes me eat my words. You're the only woman brave enough to call me an asshole," he said, his breath hot on her face and stank of liquor, "I must have you." Her smell was stronger now, emitting a wild and exciting scent of fear.

Marian tried to escape his trap, but was held fast by The Sheriff's surprising strength.

"I ain't nothin'." He said, looking up into her face with startling tenderness. The young woman gazed down at him for a moment, looking deep into his wicked, dark eyes. She would have melted in his arms right then if she didn't know any better. He'd used this trick on her before, and it didn't work those times, and it wasn't going to work this time. Fortunately, Marian knew it was only a ploy for her to hike up her skirt for him like an obedient dog bitch. She gathered up her courage.

"And I ain't nothin' either," she said, pointedly, reaching up and removing the chewed toothpick from between his lips. He let her go, startled by the sudden action and watched as she snapped it in half deftly with her hand.


	3. The Nation

_"Of all the eerie, dreary experiences, to be lost at night on the prairie ... then to hear the chorus of coyotes, like hyenas, laughing at one's predicament." – Anonymous emigrant, 1878_

Rob Hood was deep in Arizona's Indian Nation territory when he first caught news of the quick draw competition in Sherwood, California.

His camp was set up a few miles North of the Mexican border, in between two high mountainous valleys, cut through by a lazy stream that would eventually find it's way to join with the San Pedro River. The terrain was dry and barren, and hot as a rattlesnake's temper on it's best days.

Truth be told, The Nation was just about the safest place he could be in the whole dirty West, although it made him the most anxious. The Nation was a section of land given to Indian Tribes on a basis of treaties with the American government, mostly occupying a large part of land in the state of Oklahoma. Some tribes had moved Westward, as relations between white settlers and the natives became more stressed and violent. The tribes claimed a smaller populations in the Southern part of Arizona, and claimed as much jurisdiction over the land as their brethren in Oklahoma.

These tribal lands were ruled by a power greater than the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs. It was ruled by the tribes themselves. Any criminal wishing to escape the long arm of the law, but not wishing to hightail it to Mexico headed strait towards The Nation. If any lawman entered The Nation, he was ran out on horseback by the toughest Indians this side of the Mississippi.

The encampment was situated on the Northern side of a small mountain, shielding Rob and his gang from the harsh Arizona sun for the majority of the day, and protecting them from sight of any suspicious passersby. Their tents were surrounded by a growth of juniper, hiding a trail that lead up into the mountain, where a spring of fresh water bubbled out from a dark cave.

Robs gang was small, but notorious. They had robbed twelve banks and seven trains in the past five years, and their ill repute followed them like an unshakable stink. After the horrible outcome of their most recent bank heist, the only other choice was to disappear into The Nation.

The news came from Will Scarlet, who had just returned from a nearby town with supplies. Rob and John were sitting sprawled around the fire, John mending his ripped sleeping sack, and Rob staring quietly into the desert night. They both turned as Will entered the camp and watched as he dismounted the small paint and removed the saddle and saddlebags from the panting horse. As he approached, the firelight stretched to reach his face, which held a look of surprising eagerness.

"I got sometin dat you fellas might want ta hear," he said in his smooth, New Orleans drawl, crouching in front of the fire, the saddlebags still slung over his shoulder.

"I don' wanna hear about no goddamned hussy showin' ya her ankles, Scarlet," glared John from across the fire. John Little was a large, intimidating man, made even more menacing by the eerie firelight. When upright, he stood taller than a 20 hand horse, and his shoulders were wider than a sideways bag of grain. John stared at him a bit longer before turning his gaze back to his mending, the rough homemade needle dwarfed by his giant hands.

"Well I got de news, Rob," Will continued in his thick, Cajun tounge, undeterred by the large man's snide comment. He loosened the bright red handkerchief that was tied around his neck and used it to wipe away the sweat from his brow that had formed during the long ride back to the hideout.

"I was at de general post pickin' up supplies, an' I overhear dese two Indian's a'talkin'. I hear dem say sometin' about dis big quick draw contest," Will adjusted his position and now sat cross-legged on the hard ground.

"Now, I ain't ever been in a contest like dat, ne'r really interested me, I guess, but I was thinkin' to myself, I ain't de fastest draw in de West, but I know some one who damn near is--" He quickly shot a look over to Rob, who had paused poking at the coals in the fire with a stick, his face shadowed by his hat. Will chose this moment to continue, knowing that he had peaked Rob's interest.

"So I a'kept listenin', waitin' for de catch, or sometin', and I tell ya, Rob, de pool is a hellava lot more dan what we could imagine."

Rob resumed prodding at the coals for a time before he finally spoke, his voice smooth and as dark as whiskey, "What's the prize?"

Will smiled slyly, "One million dollars."

"Ha!" Rob chuckled, "Petty cash, Cajun. You know we could easily get that and then some just robbin' a bank. Anything else? Just one million dollars?" John joined in with Rob in his laughter.

Will leaned closer, his eyes lighting up like the flames in the fire, "A full-on pardon from de United States gov'nment."

Both Rob and John ceased their laughter, and sat staring at Will, mouths agape.

"You're shittin' us, Scarlet," John shook his head in disbelief, "Ain't no way a shootin' prize could be that good."

"It's dat good," Will said, leaning casually back onto his hands, "Supposedly de news is all over de West, an' we haven't heard about it 'til now, 'cause we're stuck in de middle of de land God forgot."

"It's too good," John said, ever the skeptic of the group, "Why would the U.S. government be giving away a free pardon?"

Rob remained silent throughout this exchange, and then suddenly he stood, stretching his jean-clad legs in the night air. He removed his hat and rubbed his scruffy chin, as if to wake himself up from a desert-born mirage. Breathing deeply, he turned away from the fire, and peered into the dark, desolate land called Arizona. Rob Hood was a man of few words, but with what he lacked in social niceties, he made up for in calculated thought.

"Well if you think about it," Rob began, turning back towards his companions, "They're bringin' a buncha no-good dirty outlaws together in a town where they are bound to kill each other. Either on account of the quick draw, or because of unsettled debts…"

"I see, I see," Will nodded his head, looking up at Rob, haloed by the moon in the distance, "All de dirty work is done for dem…"

Rob raised an eyebrow, and nodded, "Exactly."

"Exactly!" Will repeated, licking his lips, "So what's de harm in givin' a pardon ta de outlaw dat got rid of de meanest, most wanted men in der jurisdiction?"

"I dunno, Rob," John said, shrugging his shoulders worriedly, "Somthin' about this doesn't rub me the righ' way."

"A pardon rubs me de right way," Will said, grinning boyishly, "Only way I'd ever be allowed back inta Louisiana…"

"Where exactly is this contest?" Rob asked as he stretched his arms over his head and rubbed his sore neck.

"Dere's dis town, in de North of California. I tink dey called it Sherwood. Yep, sure as my holster, dey said 'Sherwood, California'."

Rob's arms suddenly dropped to his sides, his body turned stiff and uncomfortable. Will looked anxiously at John, who met eyes with him, then wordlessly returned to his patching, fumbling with the awkward needle in his paws.

"I ain't never returnin' to California," he said in a dark whisper, then walked out into the darkness, disappearing behind the junipers. Will made to follow him, but John held out his hand, shaking his head, "Let him go, Cajun. Let him deal with his ghosts."

Will sighed, befuddled by Rob's actions, but did not question John about the matter. He then proceeded to unpack the goods from his saddlebags, quickly glancing at the tent in the distance.

"How's Much?" Will asked, nodding toward the tent.

"Nothin' changes," John murmured, squinting and making a face at his messy stitching, "He sleeps all day, and turns restless at night. It's as if he has a sickness…"

Will looked at him questioningly, and John continued, motioning to his own stomach, "He aches and pains, but it's nothin' that can be healed of the body."

Will Scarlet knew all too well the "sickness" of which he described. It was the sickness of the innocent mind, and unsteady heart. He knew the very thought mulling over and over in Much's brain, the different scenarios played out in his numerous unsettling dreams, the reoccurring thought and reality that Much had taken a man's life.

* * *

Much lie awake on his sleeping roll, fitfully listening to the conversation outside near the fire. His stomach and fingers twitched with the excitement of a quick draw contest, and his dreams filled with gunshots and wild horses as he fitfully drifted in and out of sleep.

It felt like hours later when he shot out of his sleeping roll, covered in sweat. The feeling of exhilaration he felt earlier quickly turned into nausea, and he stumbled clumsily out of the tent and into the bushes to release that night's dinner of salt pork and beans.

Involuntary tears streamed from Much's eyes as he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. He grunted as he rose and looked over at John and Will, who still remained frozen in front of the fire, staring back at him, unsure of what to do. His face flushed with embarrassment as he made to go back into the tent when he spied a mysterious movement in the distance. Straightening, he stepped towards Will and John, who noticed his expression and turned to search for whatever Much was viewing behind them.

Fearing danger, John sprang up with surprising agility for such a massive man and lightly touched the pistol at his waist, prepared for anything that could emerge from the darkness.

Familiar footsteps presented Rob's hard-worn brown boots into the firelight, as he returned back from his solitary stroll. He seemed startled by the alertness of the encampment; John standing tall and menacing, at the forward, his hand resting dangerously on the holster of his gun, Will positioned a few paces back, his knees bent, ready to pounce, and Much, noticeably weak, but with fierce fists clenched at his sides.

Rob looked to each man in turn, then cleared his throat.

"We leave for California tomorrow."


	4. The Nun

_"30 miles to water, 20 miles to wood, 10 miles to hell and I gone there for good."  
- Carved on a deserted shack near Chadron, Nebraska_

The four riders arrived at the Papplewick Church of The Virgin Mary just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the mountains in the distance. The church stood tall, austere, and impressive against the California dusk, but that did not intimidate Rob Hood. He was not a man of faith, but he was a man who had faith in what lay within.  
John dismounted, looking at Rob questioningly.  
"What're we doin' 'ere, Rob?"  
"I don't tink we're here ta repent our sins!" Scarlet joked, removing his bandanna from his mouth. He smacked his dry, dust-caked lips together, "Al'dough I might want a taste of dat holy water..."  
John shot him a dirty look for saying something so blasphemous. It made Scarlet rub his arm in an attempt to cover up his embarrassment, "I guess any water would do, chere…"

"You won't find anything pure and holy in California," murmured Rob, leading his horse through the dilapidated iron gates and through the yard. The group followed, with young Much bringing up the rear. His eyes moved past the imposing white-washed adobe walls of the church, and could not hold back a shiver as they landed on the gravestones and small wooden crosses that spread out beyond its expanse. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of his guilt, and secretly hoped he could beseech some repentance once inside the church.

They watched Rob as he scaled the steps and knocked on the heavy oak door three times. The sound echoed throughout the empty valley, and was answered by a hawk's cry in the distance. Rob stepped back and leaned against a dilapidated iron railing while the gang waited in silence. After a minute, Scarlet huffed an expression of impatience at Rob, who met his glare with a knowing look and raised a finger to his lips.

Suddenly, a movement and thud from within the church brought all to their pistols. What sounded like a metal lock unlatched from inside, and slowly, the heavy oak door creaked open. A female voice crooned, "What hass brought schoo 'ere, _mi hijo_?"

"_Mi Querido_," Rob removed his hat and spoke in an uncharacteristic gentleness, "We are humble Christian travelers searching for some shelter inside these holy walls."

As the sister opened the door wider to view them, Rob lifted his head to meet the gaze of the woman. Her eyes widened in recognition, a knowing grin appearing upon her habited face before vanishing as her eyes darted to the hills behind the men.

"Dischoo come ahlone?" she asked in a thick Hispanic accent, all kindness gone from her voice.

"Yes. No one has tracked us here."

"Very well then," she nodded, her face regaining its kind, yet homely, pleasantness. She pushed open the door further and ushered them inside with a hurried motion, "_Apurate_! Quickly! Schoo fools are lehtting the flies in!"

The group stumbled inside the empty, cavernous church. The mysterious Sister slammed the door behind them, creating a sudden darkness that both startled and dazed them, making Much feel a bit nauseous.

"Uh, Rob…" Much managed to squeak before Rob hushed him with a sharp hiss.

"Ay," the nun huffed, hurriedly dropping a flame into a lantern on a small hook, introducing shallow meager light upon their faces, "Schoo boys better fallow me." The dim light revealed her to be a very short, broad-shouldered woman, with round brown cheeks, and a large bosom and stomach hidden under a black nun's habit. A thin layer of sweat had gathered above her brow, threatening to spill down the sides of her chubby face.

Letting out another huff, she pushed through them with urgency, but abruptly turned, feeling compelled to reach out and Much's arm when she passed him. Pausing to raise the lamp to gaze up into his face, she noted the youthfulness of the freckles spread across his nose, and her eyes shot to Rob, frowning. She sighed, then hooked her plump arm into Scarlet's hooked elbow.

"Fallow me," she repeated, leading them away from the main aisle and down a corridor to the right of the pews. Scarlet trailed warily. She waddled purposefully through a doorway and turned a sharp left into a small kitchen area. A small, thin nun in habit stood at the stove, her back turned towards them, an apron tied about her waist.

"_Sor_ Alan," she sing-songed, "Schoo won't behlieve whoo was aht the door!"

The nun wiped her hands lazily on her apron before glancing over her shoulder at the tired and dusty group of outlaws in the adobe doorway.

"_JES__Ú__S CHRISTO_!" shouted the nun, dropping the spoon toppled a chair crossing the room with lanky arms to leap into the arms of Rob. "Roberto!" the nun exclaimed before planting a giant kiss on Rob's mouth.

Rob's face instantly turned red in surprise, and dropped the nun abruptly, bringing a dirty wrist to his mouth in an attempt to wipe off the uninvited affection.

"Ah shit, Alan," Rob complained, spitting on the floor in disgust as Alan, whose hood had fallen, exposing his enviable curly black mane, greeted John and Scarlet with the same friendliness, even enveloping Much in a warm hug.

"ALAN DE DALE!" exclaimed the nun who met them at the door, "Haff schoo forgot that schoo ahre in El Casa de El Señor? And schoo, Roberto, gobbing on the floor like schoo were rhaised in a bahrn." she stared at them, her fat cheeks shaking in horror.  
"Elena, mi _Hermosa_," Alan cooed, crossing and taking up her hand and kissing it gently, "I did not mean to cuurse baht look," he motioned to Rob and the others, "It is Roberto Hood!"

Much had heard the men speak of Alan many times around the campfire, but did not understand his presence now. He shifted awkwardly as Elena shoved them towards the table and set stew before their hungry eyes.

Alan de Dale was said to have been born with the voice of an angel, but with an irritable disposition and the hot temper of the devil himself. Raised with other orphans in the care of The Sisters of Santa Maria near Guadalajara, Mexico, Alan was groomed to become a talented polyphonic choirboy. Unbeknownst to him, the church had planned his holy path and sacrifice, thus making him a castrato, ruining his chances of a life outside of religious piety.

Much shuddered at the thought of it as Alan served the men and sliced some bread with delicate fingers. After they ate, and Elena saw to it that their wounds were cared for and they were washed of the highway grime, Alan beckoned Rob to follow him to speak privately.

Rob was lead into a small room that he guessed had once been used for a study. Alan stoked a fire in the small brick fireplace and settled into a nearby rocking chair. Rob's awkward manner allowed him to do naught but hitch up his jeans and squat near the fire, staring into its wild licks of flame. Rob Hood was never comfortable indoors.

"What brings you here, Roberto?" Alan murmured, picking up a worn guitar that sat near his chair, strumming it lazily with his long fingernails, then glancing at him suspiciously, "Does this have anything to do with the contest in Sherwood?" Rob smiled fiendishly, "Now why would ya think that, pardner?"

"I've known enough _gringos_, _Se__ñ__or_," Alan replied with a sigh, returning the smile, "To know what drives men like you to Sherwood."

Rob stood and turned to Alan, "I'm gonna cut to th' chase, pardner, I think a government pardon would taste pretty damn good right now, an' I'm not a doubtin' man about my sharp shootin' skills…"

Alan's strumming paused as he watched Rob pull a weathered hand through his dark hair, his strong square jaw working nervously on a snuff of tobacco.

"…Th' only thing that's stoppin' me from gettin' to Sherwood is the thought of me _bein_' in Sherwood. Bein' back there...bein'…" he trailed off.

"Being…recognized?" Alan suggested, his dark brown eyes twinkling, mind suddenly racing with possibilities.


End file.
